Latimer's Law (22 page)

It hurt afresh. He was glad to be heading back to Abby’s house to pick up his dog, the one creature in his life who didn’t stare and wonder, fear or judge. He would move on. He still had a few days left of vacation, but maybe he wouldn’t drive all the way to northern Alabama now. Maybe he’d just find a quiet Gulf beach town with a fishing pier and a case of cold beer instead, and think about what he should do next.

He pulled the truck into Abby’s driveway and killed the engine. Mort’s doggy face appeared in the front window, nosing aside the curtain. They had left the shepherd in the house while they were at the sheriff’s department. “Let me give Mort a short walk and then I’ll help you carry your computer stuff into the house.”

Abby sat rigid in the passenger seat, staring at the house. “It looks like nothing happened here, doesn’t it?”

Cade studied the ordinariness of the little house, its tended lawn, a few unwatered petunias wilting in the late-summer heat, its tight-closed curtains and the Honda at the curb with its rear half blocking the street. To his trained eyes, things looked not quite right. He was about to agree with Abby, nevertheless, when she spoke again, turning to look at him and putting her hand on his arm.

“You know I will never be able to thank you for everything you’ve done for me these past few days, Cade.”

This is it,
he thought.
The big kiss-off for the helpful but scary, ugly guy.
He gripped the wheel tighter, and her touch faltered and fell away as his muscles tensed beneath her fingers.

“I can never apologize enough, either. Not even for the c-c-condoms—” She tried for a laugh, but there were tears in her voice. “You were such a help with the deputies. I might have chickened out if you hadn’t been there. They listened to you! You knew just what to say!”

“You wouldn’t have chickened out, not a habitual offender like you, you’re too tough,” he growled. “So what happens next? Will you call your clients back for tomorrow?”

Abby gnawed on her lip as she stared out the windshield. Then she shook her head. “No. Not for tomorrow. I have a lot of thinking to do first. I’m not sure I want to keep doing what I’ve been doing. It’s not only that Marsh has ruined everything. It’s more than that. The day care was really Gary’s life’s work. I was just along for the ride, I guess. It was rewarding work, but I think... I think maybe it’s time for a change. Another one. A big one.”

Her words resonated with Cade. He was ready for a change, as well. Since last night, in the back of his mind was a tiny germ of a plan. Maybe the K-9 trainer team in Bushnell would be up for opening a branch office, say in Ocala.... Meanwhile, staying in Bushnell would mean he could be nearer to where Abby lived, while she put her life back together. He could check in with her, be around if Marsh decided to cause trouble. Maybe even get to know those little things she’d talked about, like her favorite color, whether she liked her Chinese food spicy or not. His heartbeat quickened. It was a big shift—he’d have to buy back Mort from the Marion County Sheriff’s Department so they could train another deputy, and he might have to dip into his savings for a while, but it would be money well spent.

But first he needed to know if there was a chance she’d leave the door open for him. A crack was all he’d ask for. Had Marsh destroyed any possibility Abby would consider a long-term relationship again? The cab of the truck was heating swiftly, with the engine off. Sweat trickled down from his scalp. The place where he’d hit his head on the toolbox in the pickup bed still stung in the salty moisture.

The words jerked out of him. “I just have one question. Why the hell did you sneak off, Abby? Why didn’t you wake me up, if you were ready to come home and face Marsh? Why’d you put yourself in so much damn danger? Why didn’t you let me help you with that? He might have killed you, Abby. He was ready to do it.” It wasn’t the question he’d meant to ask, but maybe it would get him the answer he sought even more.

“That’s more than one question,” she said shakily, and he at last turned to look at her. Her gaze slid to his scar and he put up a hand out of a reflexive fury.

“You know what I’m asking you. Explain. Before we call this quits, you owe me that much.”

“You. You always want
the story,
don’t you?” But her voice wasn’t angry, just exhausted and resigned. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in my doorway. It was like... It was like magic. How did you even get here?”

“I called someone who owed me a favor. You’re avoiding the question, Abigail.”

Her lips tightened. “You don’t have to interrogate me.”

“Seems like I do. Go on.” Despite his irritation, he was pleased to see her standing up for herself. People could and did change. Roy had; Abby had. Two lives to which he’d made a difference, hadn’t he? Even as ugly as he was. He wanted to make a difference. It was the way to fill the voids in his life. He didn’t have to do that by busting drug dealers, living like a spy supercharged with adrenaline and secrecy. He could give people the tools to change on their own, and whether that was training K-9 dogs and their handlers or helping this beautiful, haunted, glorious woman marshal the strength to take control of her own life again, it didn’t matter.

She reached for the door handle. “Your dog must really want out by now—”

“I’m sure he does, but five more minutes inside where it’s air-conditioned won’t kill him. Come on, Abby, give.”

She stared forward, not looking at him. Sweat trickled down her temple and beaded her upper lip. Cade thought about the salty taste it would have, if he could kiss her just once more. “You’d think we were back at the campground again. All right, you want me to bare my soul, here it is. I was embarrassed, all right? I got myself into this mess, and I had to get myself out of it. Prove to myself—and I guess to you, too—that I wasn’t weak and useless and stupid and...and everything Marsh has made me into, since Gary died. I thought I’d only be gone a few hours. I’d get him out of the house, grab a few things and come right back to...” Her voice trembled to a stop, then she seemed to gulp and force herself to continue. She looked at him with earnest gray eyes and soft, sad mouth. “Come right back to you, in that crummy little motel room, if you’d have me after everything I’ve done wrong these past three days.”

Cade thought his heart might burst. He reached across the cab, and marvel of marvels, she didn’t flinch at his sudden movement. He hauled her to him, never more grateful for the old-fashioned bench seat, and buried his hot, raw face in her sweaty neck.
Come right back to you.
Sure, she’d have brought back his truck, but he thought she was saying more, so much more, than that. It was just so hard to believe.

“Have you? If I’d have you?” He spoke against her neck. He wasn’t sure he could look at her and keep his heart out of his eyes, but Abby wouldn’t let him stay hidden. Her fingers crept to his face and lifted his head so she could look into his face.

Cade closed his eyes.

“I keep thinking about last night,” Abby whispered. “There was something there, wasn’t there? I know how stupid and Hollywood romance that sounds. But when we were—when you were—going slow, didn’t you feel it? Something different? When we were looking at each other? It’s what gave me the last bit of strength I needed. You gave me hope, Cade, hope for a future, even though I know I don’t have a right in the world to ask you for anything ever again.”

He replayed her words in his head, but it was hard to think, because her lips were soft on his cheek where his scar pulled at the corner of his mouth. Soft, too, on his temple where the scarring was rough and angry.

Hope. He’d done that for her. Her words stabbed the dark, ugly center of his heart, and burned fierce and brilliant, lighting the long-hidden corners.

Cade hoped, too, but what he hoped was that she meant what she’d said at dinner last night when she told him his scars didn’t matter to her. He hoped she would listen when he spoke to her about his ideas for the future, leaving the sheriff’s department, changing his life. He hoped she would think about being a part of that—her experience as a small business owner was invaluable, but he wanted her around for more than just her skills. Abby seemed to be offering him a chance at a full and complete life, and he wanted to grab at it with both hands, even though they’d known each other only a few days. He was afraid of rushing her, frightening her, and so he held his tongue. He could be patient. He could take it slow. She deserved that kind of consideration.

When he turned his head, her lips were waiting for his, sweet and open, and her skin tasted of salt and sweat and she twined her arms around his neck. She didn’t complain when he held her too tightly and dragged her into his lap.

The furnace heat and stifling air of the truck cab finally drove them apart, panting and disheveled. They both looked at the house again, where Mort’s head still showed in the front window, ears pricked and alert.

Abby shook her head. “I don’t want to go back in there right now. It’s a mess. I don’t feel like cleaning up. I’m not ready to deal with the things Marsh did while I was away. Not yet.”

“So don’t go in.” Cade shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though his heart was beginning to race. This much optimism couldn’t be good for him, but he was too hopeful to push it back down. What if she really meant she was planning to walk away from everything Marsh had touched? Could he be a part of whatever followed in her life?

“But I don’t know where I could go—”

His mouth quirked in a smile. He pushed her hair back from her sweaty face. “You’ve been dealing with a lot today. I don’t expect you to realize what time it is.”

Abby glanced at her watch. “It’s almost two in the afternoon. You’re probably starving. I know I am.”

“It’s after checkout time in Micanopy.”

Abby blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Check-out time is eleven o’clock at the Rest-n-Refresh Motel. We owe that guy for another day’s stay.”

Understanding dawned on her face, making him chuckle. She fished in her pocket for her house key, and handed it to Cade. “Why don’t you go get your loyal K-9 sidekick and lock up, while I move that damned silver Honda out of the street.”

“You got it, baby.” He opened the driver’s-side door and stepped out, feeling the rush of cooler but still humid air into the sauna of the truck cab. Between the sun and the kissing, the cab had really heated up.

“Then we’ll look for a drugstore.”

Cade paused. Now it was his turn to look confused.

Abby smiled, a slow, sexy smile that turned his guts inside out with a mix of happiness and hope and desire. “I believe I owe you some spare condoms.”

“Why, Abigail McMurray, I believe you do. Remember to pay for them, please.”

“Oh, I will.” She scooted out of the cab on his side, wrapping her legs around his waist when he reached to help her down. She slid her arms around his neck and bent her head for another long, deep kiss. Cade braced his legs and folded her tightly in his arms, only letting her feet down slowly as the kiss ended, supporting her as she staggered. He leaned his forehead against hers, watching her desire-drowsed eyes open. Desire for
him.
He believed in that at last.

Abby pulled back just far enough to prevent her eyes from crossing as she looked at him. A smile crept across her lips, one of those rare smiles that bathed him in happy delight. It changed from sweetness to devilish mischief. Her fingertip traced along his bottom lip for a moment, then she leaned back in his arms and outright grinned. “Besides, I think I should stick to stealing trucks, don’t you?”

“As long as it’s just one particular truck, I think I could live with that.”

Abby looked at him a long time, serious once more, twining her fingers with his. “I think I could, too,” she said. “Now, let’s ride off into the sunset, just the three of us, what do you say?”

“Baby, I like your style.”

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from CAVANAUGH UNDERCOVER by Marie Ferrarella.

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Chapter 1

“Y
ou’ve been nursing that beer for the last hour. Something bothering you, son?”

Brennan Cavanaugh was lost in thought as he leaned against the cool white stucco wall and watched people who constituted his newly discovered family enjoying themselves. It took him a moment to zero in on the man asking the question.

Brennan had an aptitude for names and faces—in his line of work, or former line of work, he corrected himself, he’d had to. He knew the man speaking to him to be Brian Cavanaugh, the Aurora police department’s chief of detectives, younger brother of the man whose life he had saved, an act that had, as he’d silently predicted, terminated an active part of his own career, since he had to blow his cover in order to save Andrew Cavanaugh—his long lost uncle. He couldn’t help thinking that truth could be a lot stranger than fiction.

“Not really,” he replied.

It was the easiest answer to give. In his experience, when people asked how you were doing, or if something was wrong, they really didn’t want to know and certainly not in detail.

But Brian obviously did not fall into that general category, because he pressed a little. “Fakely, then?” Brian asked with an understanding smile.

Brian knew all about people’s reluctance to talk. He’d witnessed it initially from his early days on the force when he questioned victims and suspects. He was aware of it currently because of the office he’d held for a number of years.

Since becoming the chief of detectives, he had come across more than one person who was afraid to share his private feelings because he thought it might affected his work life adversely. Brian’s gift was that he knew instinctively how to separate the two and how much weight to give to what he heard in both capacities: as the chief of detectives and as a relative/friend.

“All right, let’s just say, for the sake of hypothetical argument, that there was something causing you some
minor
concern. What would that be?” he asked when Brennan made no response to his earlier joking comment.

Because he wasn’t quite ready to talk about it, Brennan went with the most obvious answer. “I’ll be the first to admit that I grew up in a crowd scene. Every holiday, birthday or miscellaneous celebration, there were always acres and acres of family—but this, well, this gives a whole new meaning to words like
overwhelmed.
I’ve heard of family trees, but this, this is damn near a family forest,” Brennan quipped with a grin that took its time in forming.

Brian laughed. “You have that right,” he readily agreed. “But at the risk of harping, that’s not what’s bothering you.” He saw the suspicious way Brennan looked at him. “Don’t look so surprised, boy. I didn’t get to where I am on good looks alone.” The statement was accompanied by another, this time deeper, laugh. “I’m a fair hand at reading people.” And there was definitely something bothering this young man who had saved his older brother’s life. Brian intended, eventually, to get to the bottom of it. “Now, if you don’t want to talk, I understand. But if you do,” Brian continued, “I am a good man to talk to. I listen.”

Brennan shrugged as he stared down at the light that was being reflected in what was left of his beer. The overhead patio light shimmered seductively on the liquid surface, as if it were flirting with him.

“It’s nothing, sir,” he finally said. “I was just wondering what I was going to do with myself come Monday morning, that’s all.”

Brian appeared slightly puzzled. “I thought you were working undercover for the DEA. Something to do with drug smuggling.”

Brian left the statement vague despite the fact that he knew exactly what the young man next to him had been up to when he rescued Andrew. The moment he’d done that, Brian had made it his business to find out everything he could about the tall, strapping DEA agent with the same last name.

Brennan nodded, avoiding his eyes. “I was.”

“Was,” Brian repeated as if he was trying to see if he’d heard the word correctly.

At the last moment, Brennan withheld a sigh. “Yes, sir.”

Brian was about to tell the younger man not to call him sir, but he knew it would be a wasted effort, so he let it pass. “But you’re not anymore.” It was now an assumption.

Brennan frowned, though he thought it hid it. “No, sir.”

“Case over?” Brennan asked. Obviously his digging hadn’t turned up the whole story.

Brennan shook his head. “No, sir.”

“I see,” Brian replied quietly. And he did because all the pieces suddenly came together. “You blew your cover saving my brother.”

Brennan didn’t want any accolades. He’d done what needed doing. That it cost him wasn’t the victim’s fault. “I had no choice.”

“Some people might argue that you did have a choice.”

At bottom it was an argument that debated the responsibilities of a cameraman. Does he or she watch a scene unfold and film it as it happens no matter what that might be or interfere if what is being filmed depicts something immoral or illegal? Some felt it was their duty to record events as they happened; others felt duty-bound to come in on the side of right.

Brennan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what anybody argues. Way I see it, I didn’t have a choice. He would have been dead if I just stood and watched.”

Brian smiled and nodded. “Good answer—for all of us. So, does this mean you’re currently out of a job?” he asked.

“Change of venue,” Brennan corrected. “They put me on desk duty.”

“Until we can trust you to keep your assignment foremost on your ‘to-do’ list and not play superhero, you stay behind a desk,”
Lieutenant Lisbon, his direct superior, had shouted at him. As fair skinned as they came, Lisbon had a habit of turning an almost bright red whenever he was angry and he had been very angry the day he’d thrown him off the case.

Brian looked at him knowingly. “Let me guess. You’re not a desk duty kind of guy.”

“Nope.”

Brian didn’t even pause before asking, “Have you given any thought to having a different sort of change of venue?”

Was the chief of Ds being philosophical, or—? “What do you mean, ‘different’?”

Brian felt him out slowly, watching Brennan’s eyes for his true response. “Let’s just say going from the DEA to being a police detective on the Aurora Police Department?”

Brennan’s electric blue eyes narrowed as he stopped taking in the people in the immediate vicinity and focused completely on the man he was talking to.

“Are you offering me a job, sir?” he asked a little uncertainly.

The politely worded question almost had him laughing out loud. “Boy, after what you did, you can write your own ticket to anything that’s within this family’s power to give, so yes, I am offering you a job. As a matter of fact, something recently came to my attention that you would undoubtedly be perfect for, given your undercover background.”

Brennan could feel himself getting hopeful. He needed to nip that in the bud if this wasn’t going to pan out. “You’re not just pulling my leg, are you, sir?”

“I have been known to do a great many things in my time, singularly or on an ongoing basis. However, leg pulling does not number among them, so no, I am not pulling your leg.”

Setting his own glass—now devoid of beer—aside on the closest flat surface, Brian turned his attention completely to the subject he was about to share with this new member of the family.

“Word has it that we’ve had more than our share of runaways lately. There have always been one or two in a year. However, the number went up dramatically recently. Ten in two months.”

“You don’t think they’re runaways?” It was a rhetorical question.

“I do not,” Brian confirmed. Runaways were bad enough. What he was about to say was infinitely worse. “Rumor has it that these missing girls are being ‘recruited’ one way or another for the sole purpose of becoming sex slaves, used to sate the appetites of men whose sick preferences tend toward underaged girls. Preferably untouched underaged girls. I’m putting together a task force to track down the people in charge of this sex-trafficking ring, and I could use a man like you on the inside to do what you normally do.”

“And that is?” Brennan asked, curious as to how the chief perceived him.

“Get the bad guys to trust you,” Brian said simply, humor curving the sides of his mouth.

This definitely sounded as if it had possibilities and it certainly beat the hell out of sitting behind a desk, aging.

“Who would I have to see about applying for the job?” Brennan asked.

“You’re seeing him,” Brian assured him, then Brian laughed softly to himself as he shook his head and marveled, “Who knew it would be such a small world and that someone from the very branch of the family that Andrew set out to track down wound up saving his life.” Brian straightened, moving away from the wall. “I guess that’s what they mean when people talk about ‘karma.’”

“Maybe,” Brennan allowed.

He certainly had no better or other plausible explanation for why he’d been where he was that fateful night. He hadn’t even known that his late grandfather had had any family other than the four children he had fathered.

The life Brennan had chosen didn’t allow him to make any unnecessary contact with anyone from his “other” life for months at a time. Since he wasn’t married and his last semimeaningful relationship was far in the past, he was a perfect candidate for the job he’d had.

Emphasis, Brennan reminded himself, on the word
had.

Brian grinned at him as the man straightened and indicated a keg several yards away. “Let’s see about getting you that refill now,” he prompted.

Brennan looked down at the glass he was holding and noticed that it was empty. Without realizing it, as he’d talked to Brian, he’d consumed the rest of the beer.

He flashed a grin now and said, “Sure, why not?”

Brian clapped an arm around his shoulders, directing him toward the keg. “Can’t think of a single reason,” he confirmed. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“A little overwhelming, isn’t it?” the tall, broad-shouldered man who had joined Brennan nursing something amber in a chunky glass, asked, amused.

The dinner had been served and now everyone had broken up into smaller groups, some remaining in the house, some drifting outside. All in all, Andrew Cavanaugh’s “get acquainted” party was teeming with Cavanaughs. Brennan was still trying to absorb everything that his chance action several weeks ago had brought about.

So many names, so many faces, he couldn’t help thinking.

Brennan looked now at the man who was addressing him. They were around the same height and there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Or maybe it was that the amicable man looked a great deal like the lion’s share of the men who were meandering about the house and grounds, talking, laughing or, in some instances, just listening.

“You could say that,” Brennan agreed.

“Don’t be shy about it. First time I attended one of these ‘little’ family gatherings, I thought I’d wandered into a central casting call for Hollywood’s answer to what a family of cops was supposed to look like.”

“The first time,” Brennan repeated, having picked up the term. “Does that mean that you’re
not
a Cavanaugh?”

“Well, yeah, actually, I am,” the other man more than willingly admitted, then grinned as he remembered the confusion that had ensued over this discovery coming to light. “But at the time, I thought I was a Cavelli.”

If this was some kind of a riddle, it left him standing in the dark. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t follow.”

Thomas laughed. “At the time, neither did I. I’m Thomas,” he said abruptly, realizing that he
hadn’t
introduced himself.

Shifting his glass to his other hand, he offered it in a handshake, which Brennan easily took. “Brennan,” Brennan told him.

The expression on Thomas’s face told him that he didn’t need to make the introduction. His name had made the rounds. “My father’s Sean Cavanaugh, the—”

“—head of the daytime crime scene investigative unit,” Brennan completed. “I looked over the roster at the department before I came here.” Even so, he couldn’t untangle the confusion associated with what Thomas was telling him. “But if your father’s a Cavanaugh, then I don’t—”

Thomas decided to tell this story from the beginning. “There was a time when he didn’t know he was a Cavanaugh. You notice the strong resemblance between my father, Sean, and the former chief of police, Andrew—the guy whose life you saved,” he added.

Brennan nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, so did a lot of other people a few years ago. They thought that the chief was snubbing them and flat-out ignoring them. Since he was doing no such thing and wasn’t even in these places they claimed to have seen him, he did a little detective work of his own to see if he could track down this man who supposedly had his face.

“That led to tracking down a few important details—like where he was born, when, all that good stuff. Turns out that the day my dad was born, so was another male baby. And if that wasn’t enough of a coincidence, they were both named Sean. One was a Cavanaugh and the other was a Cavelli—Two
C
s,” he emphasized.

“And let me guess, the nurse got them confused.”

“Give the man a cigar. Story goes she’d just been told her soldier fiancé had been killed overseas by a roadside bomb. She was completely beside herself and just going through the motions to keep from collapsing in a heap. To add to our little drama, the infant the Cavanaughs brought home died before his first birthday.”

“I guess that trumps a divorce and estranged brothers,” Brennan quipped.

Thomas held up his hand, indicating that he not dismiss the matter so quickly. “Not when the reunion brings twenty-four more Cavanaughs to the table.” He laughed.

Brennan looked around. He knew that all his siblings and cousins, not to mention his father, aunt and uncles, hadn’t all been able to make this gathering. Despite that, it
still
looked like a crowd scene from some epic, biblical movie.

“Just how many Cavanaughs
are
there?” he asked, looking at Thomas.